


Jaskier's Guide to Finding Home (Starts With a Song)

by whenshewrites



Series: A Collection of 5+1 Things [6]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Fluff and Angst, Geralt Deserves Nice Things, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Goddammit, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Jaskier is a Nice Thing, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Let The Idiots be Happy, M/M, Mutual Pining, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:48:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24206941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whenshewrites/pseuds/whenshewrites
Summary: Geralt knew what the word home meant. It's just not something he's ever had before.Until Jaskier.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: A Collection of 5+1 Things [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1990429
Comments: 37
Kudos: 747





	Jaskier's Guide to Finding Home (Starts With a Song)

\- i -

Geralt knew what the word home meant. 

He’d heard it said enough times before, though he’d never experienced it himself. He might call Roach home, or the feeling of his sword when he swung it. Geralt knew there were other things people considered home; shelter, safety, loved ones. He knew what the word meant. 

It just wasn’t something he had.

Geralt never lingered on that thought too long. Not until an old woman begged him for help.

Her task was simple; there was something in the woods that came during the night and terrorized her chickens. Usually, one or two went missing. He would’ve called it a wild animal if not for the prints left behind and the fact the beast always left the legs of the chickens on her doorstep the next day.

Geralt knew exactly what he was dealing with and he knew how to kill it. It was a simple job; done in a matter of hours. The old woman scrounged together what coins she had and offered them forward; and seemed surprised when Geralt refused.

He didn’t do that often; even witchers needed to eat. But he took one look at the woman— the way her hands trembled, the yellowing of her skin, the cloudiness in her eyes— and knew she wouldn’t live to see next spring. He wasn’t going to take coin from a dying soul.

Still, the old woman was determined to offer something.

“I can tell you the future,” she said, taking his hand. “As payment. Let me tell your future.”

Geralt clenched his jaw and resisted the urge to pull away. He comes across these types before. The muddled and elderly who thought they could see things others could not. He withheld a sigh and didn’t fight back.

Most times, it was easiest just to indulge in their claims. So Geralt let her trace wrinkled fingers over his calloused palm and watched as her brows furrowed in concentration.

“My gods,” she said after a moment, and Geralt raised a brow. Crazy or not, that didn’t sound good. The old woman eyed him sadly before glancing down again. She murmured a few more things, and then made another noise, looking up again. This time though, she looked relieved. “Don’t be worried, witcher, you’ll be fine. Eventually.”

Geralt forced what he thought was a smile. It might’ve been more of a grimace. “Thanks.”

“It’s the music,” the old woman said, letting go of his hand. “Remember that.”

“The music.”

“The music,” she repeated. Geralt grunted.

“Right.”

She gave him a pointed look and Geralt offered his best smile-grimace again. It must’ve been good enough because she patted his arm and turned away. Geralt heaved a sigh the moment the door to her tiny, rundown hut closed.

“The music,” he muttered, turning away. “Right.”

Whatever the fuck that was supposed to mean.

\- ii -

It all came back around fifteen years later, when Geralt had long forgotten about the old woman and her words. At this point, he had bigger problems on his hands; like the bard who insisted on following him everywhere.

“Jaskier, if you don’t shut the fuck up, I’m going to rip your vocal cords out and feed them to you.”

Jaskier stopped strumming his lute and shot Geralt a flat look. He’d been singing for the past two hours and Geralt just wanted to ride in silence— well, he was riding. Jaskier was walking at Roach’s side. The bard had complained enough about that too.

“You’re just being grumpy,” Jaskier said, tweaking out another few notes. “Because the werewolf nearly ripped out your throat.”

“I’m grumpy because I haven’t slept in two fucking days and your incessant singing isn’t providing me any comfort,” Geralt growled back. Jaskier rolled his eyes.

“You love my singing.”

“I do not.”

“You do too and I won’t even make you take that back because I know you’re just being difficult. Now shut up and let me sing. I’m bored, my feet hurt, and there’s still another hour between us and the nearest town.”

Geralt glared at him. Jaskier smirked and strummed out a few more chords.

Sighing, Geralt gazed back forward. There were certain times when he knew he wouldn’t be winning an argument against the bard. Over the years, Geralt had come to realize that. Jaskier did what he wanted and the more time that passed, the less seriously he took Geralt’s threats. 

And that left Geralt suffering his smugness every time the bard ignored what he demanded.

In truth, Geralt didn’t hate his singing. But he’d come off a fight that had very nearly gone south and he was tired. Tired, hungry, and there were quite a few claw wounds across his chest that would take their time healing. He just wanted something to drink and somewhere other than Roach’s saddle to sit.

The next hour was long. Jaskier sang and danced around the entire time, despite his acclaimed sore feet. Geralt rolled his eyes every time the bard grinned over.

By the time they reached the town, though, Jaskier was noticeably more tired. His singing had tapered off and he was dragging his feet. Still, Geralt was sure he didn’t feel bad. Not in the slightest.

He let the stable boy lead Roach off before following Jaskier into the inn. The bard perked up the moment he smelled food and shot Geralt a bright-eyed look, which made Geralt roll his eyes. Even if the smallest hint of a smile tugged at his own lips too.

The innkeeper looked wary when he saw Geralt but the moment his eyes landed on Jaskier, his face brightened. Geralt covered up a scowl at that.

“Master Bard! Will you be singing for us today?”

“Of course,” Jaskier said, the exhaustion draining from his face. Geralt didn’t know how his fingers hadn’t fallen off years ago. “It would be my honor.”

“Lodging and drinks on the house, then,” the innkeep said. Jaskier beamed.

“Thank you, good sir!”

Grunting, Geralt found the table in the furthest corner and Jaskier followed happily. The bard plopped down in the chair across from Geralt and grinned. 

“Look at that, witcher. I’m the provider in this relationship.”

“Hm.”

“You should appreciate me more,” Jaskier said, blue eyes dancing mischievously. “I really am one of the best things that’s ever happened to you.”

Geralt raised a brow, but didn’t say anything. The barmaid came over with two mugs of ale and Jaskier instantly turned to her, a charming smile leaping across his face and those dancing eyes focusing on someone else other than Geralt. 

Geralt took his drink and may or may not have glowered into it.

Later, Jaskier pushed himself up and tossed Geralt a wink, before grabbing his lute and moving into the middle of the room. All the drunks cheered, Geralt rolled his eyes, and Jaskier strummed a few chords, waving a hand through the air.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! Tis I, your loyal bard, here to entertain you with sweet songs and jolly melodies!”

Geralt turned back to his drink, if only to hide the exasperated smile tugging at the corners of his lips. 

Jaskier jumped right into his music and it was nothing Geralt hadn’t heard before. ‘Toss a Coin to Your Witcher’, ‘Her Sweet Kiss’, ‘Elaine Ettarial’. But then he pivoted into something new; a song Geralt hadn’t heard before about a knight and his loyal squire. It made him glance up, only to see blue eyes watching him from across the room with a strange light shining in them.

Geralt couldn’t tear his eyes away. And Jaskier held his gaze the entire time, finishing the song with a soft whisper and smiling quietly, before turning back around. Geralt blinked.

Then he shook his head.

Jaskier was a flirt; Geralt knew that much. The bard would attempt to woo anything that walked on two feet. That’s just how Jaskier was.

The song left Geralt feeling… unsettled, though.

\- iii -

The second time was a little beyond the point where Geralt had come to tolerate the bard. Jaskier still got under his skin, but Geralt didn’t feel the urge to kill him nearly as often. He figured that was progress.

Geralt was hired to hunt down what could only be a warlock. The rest of the townspeople thought it was a monster or wild animal dragging children into the dark forest when they went out to play, but Geralt knew better. Monsters didn’t discriminate age. Or gender. 

And it was young girls under the age of fifteen that had been vanishing into the dark.

Geralt took the job because of the crying woman that told him her daughter had gone missing. A little girl named Adie who’d vanished when she’d gone into the forest to pick wildflowers. The woman promised Geralt whatever he wanted if he could only bring her little girl back alive.

Geralt wasn’t sure that was probable. But he promised to do his best.

Jaskier insisted on coming.

“You’re always so stingy with the details, Geralt,” he said, crossing his arms. “And it’s a warlock, not a bloodthirsty beast. I’ll be fine.”

“Warlocks can be bloodthirsty beasts,” Geralt grunted. Jaskier rolled his eyes.

“Ah, well. I’m coming.”

And that was the end of the discussion. Geralt rarely tried to argue with Jaskier at this point— he never won. The bard was as stubborn as he was annoying, if not more.

Jaskier rode on the back of Roach with him. Geralt didn’t know when this change had occurred, but he didn't fight it anymore. Roach didn’t seem to mind. In fact, sometimes, Geralt worried she liked Jaskier as much as she liked him.

The warlock lived in an old shack deep in the forest. Jaskier said it seemed ironic and Geralt just rolled his eyes. He’d seen this often enough before. The air around it  _ reeked  _ of magic.

“Stay back,” Geralt said, pushing Roach’s reins into the bard’s hands. Jaskier let out an exasperated sigh.

“Fine, witcher. But shout if you need me!”

Geralt rolled his eyes and turned away. Magic wasn’t the only scent in the air. He could smell blood too and total, undiluted terror. Geralt didn’t hesitate before kicking the door open, the fading light catching the blade of his sword as he drew it. 

There was movement across the room. A thin, weasel looking man scrambled back and Geralt spotted another figure curled up in the corner; a small one with a blue dress stained in blood.

Blood roared in Geralt’s ears. The warlock didn’t even have a chance to react before Geralt’s blade was sinking through his chest. Geralt drove down so hard, his blade came out on the other side and the light was gone from the warlock’s eyes in a matter of seconds.

A sudden shriek filled the air. Black blood came pouring out of the wound instead of red and Geralt was thrown back as something—  _ something— _ leaped out of the warlock's body and took to the air, shattering through the window and vanishing up into the sky.

Geralt cursed.

Jaskier came bursting in. “Geralt!”

“I’m fine,” Geralt said, crouching down next to the body of the girl. He touched her shoulder and then drew back like he’d been burned. Bile rose in his throat. “Fuck.”

“What? Geralt, what's wrong? Is the girl okay?”

“She’s gone.”

Jaskier’s face turned white. He looked at the girl, then took a careful step forward. Geralt rose and grabbed his shoulder, but Jaskier shook him off. “We can’t just leave her here.”

“We won’t.”

“Geralt, let me go. I want to see.”

“No, bard,” Geralt said, gripping his shoulder tighter. “You don’t.”

Jaskier still shook him off. Geralt ground his teeth together and Jaskier dropped down at the girl’s side, one hand reaching carefully out. He paused at the last second, though. His fingers trembled in the air, right above her shoulder, and he glanced back over. “What was it?”

“What was what.”

“The thing,” Jaskier said. “That went through the window. That wasn’t just a warlock.”

“No,” Geralt said. “He was dabbling in dark magic.”

“Dark magic?”

“Demons.”

Jaskier’s face tightened and anger flashed through his eyes. He looked back at the body of the young girl and Geralt almost felt uncomfortable at the sheer look of hot fury in his eyes. “She was a sacrifice.”

“She was an offering,” Geralt said, because a sacrifice would’ve meant she died for something. This girl only died because of a mad man and his lust for power. Jaskier swallowed.

“All the mother wanted was her daughter back.”

“She’ll have a body,” Geralt said, moving around the bard. “Not everyone gets that.”

Jaskier didn’t answer. He just gazed at the girl and when Geralt went to pick her up, a hand shot out, catching his forearm. Geralt gave him a sharp look, but Jaskier didn’t meet his eyes, touching the girl’s shoulder. Gentle fingers rested on her blood-stained sleeve and, closing his eyes, Jaskier’s lips moved in a quiet song.

Geralt drew back. Something in his chest  _ twisted  _ and for a moment, he could only stare. Jaskier’s voice was quiet and haunting and Geralt blinked, then pulled away, turning from the bard and striding out the door of the shack. He didn’t stop until he was outside in the fresh air, Roach stamping her hooves as he stood shock-still and just breathed, the sound of Jaskier’s voice floating through the cracked window. 

Geralt— he didn’t understand the bard. The sorrowful voice that filled Geralt’s ears made his head spin and he never would’ve had this reaction over a victim before.

_ The mother will have a body, not everyone gets that. _

That was what Geralt focused on. Not the fact he’d been too late to save the girl. Not the fact the mother was going to be burying her child tonight. Part of her soul— part of her home. Gone.

Geralt felt sick. Dizzy. Confused. And inside, Jaskier continued to sing.

Something slipped down Geralt’s cheek.

\- iv -

The third time wasn’t to an audience or a dead body. The third time was to Geralt.

Geralt, of all people.

It was after a particularly bad fight. Geralt had been defending himself fine against the alghoul, when the second one showed up. It was rare for the monsters to be in pairs, so that'd been the last thing Geralt had expected. And the broken ribs, dislocated shoulder, and gash straight across his chest showed proof of that.

Jaskier hadn’t stopped fussing over him since the healer left. Geralt thought that if the bard kept it up for much longer, the decade they’d spent together wouldn’t matter. He’d rip the bard’s throat out right here.

Because Geralt didn’t need a wet nurse, dammit.

But Jaskier didn’t seem to notice the murderous expression on his face. In fact, he chuckled when Geralt growled, dabbing a wet cloth around the wound across his chest. The skin was an angry red color and the stitches had hurt like hell. But the cloth felt good. Though that just made Geralt dislike it more.

“I’m fine, bard,” he grunted. “I don’t need you here.”

“Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier said, laughing. “You always need me, don’t deny it. Now hold still and stop squirming.”

“I mean it,” Geralt said, trying to sound a sharp as he could. “I don’t need you fawning over me. Go fuck a woman or sing a song.”

“Now those are two very different things,” Jaskier said, looking amused rather than offended. “Are you sure you don’t have a concussion as well, witcher?”

“Fuck off, bard.”

“And there’s the Geralt that I know so well,” Jaskier snorted. “Now, I highly doubt you really want me to fuck a woman. Or a man, for that matter. But would you like me to sing a song?”

Geralt stared at him. Jaskier arched a mischievous brow. 

“Which one is your favorite?”

“None.”

“Oh, come now, Geralt. I’ve seen you watch me when I sing. Either you like my music or you like the things I can do with my mouth and fingers. Care to delve into that?”

Geralt felt his face turn hot and he didn’t know why, but he had the sudden urge to look away. Instead, he growled. Jaskier rolled his eyes.

“I shall sing you the song about the knight and his bard. I know you like that one.”

“And why would you think that?”

“Your eyes,” Jaskier said, his face softening. “I like to watch your eyes when you hear it.”

Geralt didn’t have a response to that. Jaskier’s cheeks turned pink and he ducked his head, before setting the cloth aside. Grabbing his lute from where it sat beside the bed, Jaskier leaned back and traced his fingers over the chords, strumming out a few chords. His face changed like it always did when he surrendered himself to the music— his expression turned youthful and his eyes went distant. Geralt wondered where he went when he sang like that. What Jaskier thought of.

The bard hummed. Then he sang, the words dancing through the air like magic. Geralt didn’t know how this was supposed to help him heal, but he found himself relaxing nonetheless. 

Geralt thought he could see something in between each verse. Something familiar; Jaskier’s mention of the knight’s mighty steed. The squire’s hidden love for the arts. The quiet bond between the two that was never spoken aloud, but known through each wandering glance.

Geralt watched Jaskier’s fingers dance and his lips move. And some part of him thought this— this could be home. Like Roach, or the feeling of his sword when he swung it. Geralt thought Jaskier could be home.

The thought terrified him less than it should.

\- v -

Jaskier sang for everyone. The living, the dead. He sang to the clouds, the stars, and the crackling of the fire when they set up for camp. Jaskier sang for those who could pay and those who could not. His voice was an offering but he never really asked for anything in return. He was Jaskier the bard. Julian the minstrel. Dandelion the poet.

He was music.

Jaskier sang for everyone. But Geralt didn’t know if anyone had ever sung for him.

Geralt never planned to. But then Jaskier was hurt.

Geralt really should’ve known better than to leave him alone. His job took him outside of the last town they’d come to, and Geralt refused to let Jaskier attend. He wasn’t quite sure what he was facing, but he knew it was dangerous. It’d killed over a dozen people already, so the mayor of the town had said.

Geralt wouldn’t let it kill anyone else. He wouldn’t let it touch his bard.

So he made Jaskier stay at the inn and promised to be back in three days. Three days, or Jaskier would take Roach and never return. Because if the creature could kill a witcher, then the entire town was doomed.

Things didn’t quite add up. It was a still-maturing Kikimore that wandered around the woods and it didn’t kill him. In fact, Geralt came back in more pieces than he had in a while. His last few jobs hadn’t ended so well. It’d been a rough couple of weeks.

But when he got back to the inn, Jaskier was gone. Jaskier was gone and there was a note awaiting his arrival. A note rolled up neatly and tied with the string of a lute. A lock of brown hair fell to the floor when Geralt unwraveled it.

_ ‘How badly do you want your bard back?’ _

Geralt didn’t remember the last time he felt such rage.

Years ago, maybe. A time he didn’t like to think about, when he’d gotten the nickname ‘the Butcher’ instead of ‘the White Wolf’. Geralt growled and crumpled up the note and turned from the tavern. He didn’t even need to question who'd sent him the threat; it was the same man who’d sent him on the Kikimore goose chase in the first place. It had to be.

Geralt found himself outside of the mayor’s mansion when the moon was pillowed by the clouds and the darkness was suffocating. Clearly, he was expected; two guards that took fearful places at his side and escorted him into the front hall.

The mayor was waiting for him. But Geralt didn't pay him any attention.

On his knees a few feet away, face bloodied and head sagging, was a man dressed in blue. His lute was discarded behind him and there were stains of crimson bleeding through his shirt. Geralt felt his throat close and he fixed the mayor with such a look of fury, the man’s eyes flickered with fear for a moment. Geralt growled at the back of his throat.

“What the fuck,” he growled. “Do you want.”

“Not the bard,” the mayor said. “We don’t want anything from the witcher’s bitch. The witcher himself, though, would be an acceptable prize.”

“Have I done something to wrong you?”

“My sister sent for your help once,” the mayor said, his eyes cold. “Help killing a monster. Two weeks later, she was dead, and no witcher had ever shown up. No golden-eyed beast ever came to her aid.”

Geralt didn’t remember that. But he couldn’t respond to every plea he got and he’d turned down jobs before. When they were across the continent or he was already working one. On his knees, Jaskier groaned quietly, trying to lift his head, and Geralt looked at him before fixing the mayor with another dark look.

“You want me.”

“I want your head, Butcher.”

“For the life of the bard.”

“Geralt,” a voice rasped from the side. Geralt let himself glance over again. Jaskier’s eyes were lidded and the side of his face was swollen red, but he still shook his head. “Don’t.”

One of the men struck him across the face. Geralt nearly leaped forward, but he restrained himself at the last second and looked back at the mayor instead. His fingers traced over the pommel of his sword. “I’ll strike you deal. Let the bard go and I won’t take your head.”

The mayor’s eyes flashed. “You think you’re in a bargaining spot?”

“Have you ever seen a witcher angry?”

The man sneered and raised a hand. Jaskier let out a quiet noise as one of the men put a blade to his throat and Geralt nearly flinched. Fury climbed steadily his throat and the edges of his vision were turning red. The mayor raised a brow. “Your life for that of the bard's—”

Geralt moved before he could finish the sentence.

His blade cut clean through the man’s neck and Geralt turned to the others before they even had a chance to react. There were two more thumps as their heads bounced off the floor and Jaskier let out a muffled cry, dropping sideways. Geralt moved to catch him a second before he hit the ground.

The bard’s head dropped against his shoulder. Jaskier’s eyelids fluttered.

“Geralt—”

One of the side doors burst open. A young maid came in, and then let out a shriek, turning on her heel and racing from the room. Geralt cursed under his breath.

He unclasped the buckle of his cloak and draped it across Jaskier’s back. There was a line of blood going around to the bard's torso from some injury Geralt couldn’t see and Jaskier flinched at the touch of fabric, but he didn’t pull away. One hand reached out to grab weakly at Geralt’s arm.

“Geralt, I— couldn’t—”

“Hush, bard,” Geralt said. “I’m here.”

“I couldn’t stop them,” Jaskier finished, his words mumble. “Couldn’t fight back.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Geralt said. “You did nothing wrong.”

Geralt wrapped the cloak around Jaskier’s shoulders and slipped an arm under his legs. Jaskier moaned again.

“Hold onto me, Jaskier. Can you do that?”

Jaskier wrapped an arm around his neck. Geralt lifted him with a grunt.

He carried Jaskier all the way back to the inn. The streets were dark and quiet, but Geralt knew the maid would go for help, and soon, they'd be much louder. But he didn’t care. The town could try and come after him— he’d protect Jaskier no matter what it cost.

When he kicked open the inn door and pushed inside, the woman behind the counter saw Jaskier’s limp frame and her eyes widened. She hurried around the counter. 

“What happened to him?”

“I need a bucket of water,” Geralt said, ignoring the question. “A bottle of whiskey, and a needle and threat.”

The woman nodded and hurried into an adjoining room. Geralt carried Jaskier up to their room and laid him gently on the bed. The bard groaned when the wound across his torso touched the mattress, and Geralt winced. There was blood on his own shirt now. He didn’t remember the last time he’d been bothered by blood on any of his clothes.

The woman came in and laid the supplies on the table, then stood aside. Geralt raised a brow in her direction and she wrung out her hands. “Should I call for a healer?”

“The mayor’s dead,” Geralt said, grabbing the whiskey. “In a matter of hours, they’re going to be looking for anyone who aided in his death or know where his killer is. I’ll be on my way after I stitch up my bard.”

“You won’t be taking him anywhere,” the woman said. “Not like that. You and your bard are safe here.”

Geralt looked at her distrustfully. The woman’s face softened. 

“I’ve had my dealings with witchers,” she said. “I’ve even nursed a couple back to health before. Take care of your bard, White Wolf. If anyone comes here, I’ll have seen nothing.”

Geralt hesitated, before offering a nod. The woman smiled and left the room, and Jaskier shifted again, whining softly. Geralt turned back toward him.

“Stop moving.”

“Geralt.”

“I’m here. Stay still.”

Jaskier blinked up at him. His blue eyes searched Geralt’s face and he smiled— then winced, one hand coming to touch his cheek. Jaskier groaned. “Ouch, fuck, Geralt. I hurt.”

“Stop touching, then.”

“Am I dying? I feel like I’m dying.”

Geralt couldn’t help rolling his eyes. “You’re not dying, bard.”

“Fuck,” Jaskier said, face screwed up. “Can I be dying? That’d make the pain go away, I think.”

“No,” Geralt said. “No dying.”

“You’re no fun.”

Geralt ignored him and lifted up the man’s shift. There was a thin line going across his torso; it wasn’t bleeding anymore, but the skin around it was crusted and a fiery red. It looked like a knife wound. Geralt glared up at him. “Did you fight them?”

“I tried.”

“That was foolish.”

“Okay, then,” Jaskier said, rolling his eyes. “I should’ve just let them cart me off, Geralt? Next time, I’ll keep that in mind.”

“There won’t be a next time.”

Jaskier’s face softened. He offered a small, pained-looking smile again. “Okay.”

“There won’t.”

“I’ll remember that,” Jaskier said. “For next time.”

Geralt frowned at him. Then he glared at the wound and grabbed the bucket and the cloth, along with the needle and thread. Jaskier’s face twisted.

“No stitches.”

“Jaskier—”

“I don’t like needles, Geralt,” Jaskier said. “No stitches, please.”

Geralt hesitated. There was no way he was going to leave the wound unstitched— not with the likelihood it would get infected. But he could knock Jaskier out, perhaps. That would calm the bard down. And probably leave him with a headache. Geralt sighed.

“I have whiskey. You’ll drink it and I’ll do the stitches.”

“Geralt, no.”

“Dammit, bard, you need stitches,” Geralt said. Jaskier’s face did a number of things and then he just glared, though Geralt could see a hint of fear in his eyes. Despite everything, Geralt’s resolve weakened. “How can I help?”

“What?”

“What will calm you down?”

Jaskier looked at him with wide eyes. Geralt waited and after a moment, the bard’s expression turned slightly playful. “Sing to me.”

“What.”

“Sing to me, witcher,” Jaskier said. “I’ve never heard you sing.”

“That's because I don’t sing.”

“You asked what you could do to help,” Jaskier reminded him. Geralt sighed, considering once more just knocking the bard out. But Jaskier was looking at him with pleading eyes and Geralt couldn’t make himself say no. But he also didn’t sing.

Geralt passed him the whiskey bottle and dipped the cloth into the water. As Jaskier watched him quietly, Geralt dabbed it around his injury and began to hum.

It was the song of the knight and his squire. Jaskier’s eyes lit up and a small smile danced across his face. Geralt stopped trying to smother his own. He hummed, Jaskier drank, and by the time the needle touched skin, the bard was holding on tightly to his arm but not protesting anymore.

Jaskier sang for everyone. The living, the dead. He sang to the clouds, the stars, and the crackling of the fire when they set up for camp. Jaskier sang for those who could pay and those who could not. His voice was an offering but he never really asked for anything in return. He was Jaskier the bard. Julian the minstrel. Dandelion the poet.

He was music.

Jaskier sang for everyone. But Geralt didn’t know if anyone had ever sung for him. And he'd never planned on doing so, but then Jaskier got hurt.

So Geralt did his best.

\- + i -

See, Geralt knew what the word home meant. 

He’d heard it said enough times before, though he’d never experienced it himself. These days, he’d call Roach home, or the feeling of his sword when he swung it. Geralt knew there were other things people considered home; shelter, safety, loved ones. He knew what the word meant. 

Geralt thought he'd call Jaskier home.

The bard that wouldn’t leave him alone. The annoying young man with sharp blue eyes and a mischievous smile. The one that sang for joy, for mourning, and for comfort. The one that put so much love and emotion into his words, Geralt couldn’t help falling in love with it.

Falling in love with him.

Twenty-five years ago, Geralt had his future read. He was told to never forget the music; and Geralt had thought it was a bunch of nonsense. But twenty-five years later, the words came circling back. And sitting near the fire, watching Jaskier dance around the room with Ciri on his heels, fingers strumming over the strings of his lute, Geralt thought he knew what the word 'home' meant.

Home was shelter, safety, and loved ones. Something Geralt never thought he would've had until Jaskier came along. And Geralt realized it wasn’t just those things. It was the bard they lived it. A little like his music. 

And none of it scared Geralt as much as he’d thought it should.

**Author's Note:**

> Of courses, comments and the support you guys leave makes my day! I hope you all enjoyed- Geraskier is officially my new hyper-fixation. How long will it last? You guys know as well as me!
> 
> Come mess with me on Tumblr: [here](https://when-she-writes-stuff.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Updated! Added a few scenes as of 6/1/20 for the 5+1 theme!


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